


Of Beer and Friendship....

by telemachus



Series: Rising-verse [58]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Dogs, Elflings, F/M, Glorfindel angst, Inappropriate use of honeybeer, M/M, Tinnu the cat - Freeform, Valinor, glorfindel has issues, honeybeer, joys of free childcare, slightly weird elves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 13:27:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6331003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life in Valinor.<br/>Glorfindel has issues.<br/>Erestor is long-suffering.<br/>Ecthelion is oblivious.<br/>Elflings love Glorfindel and Erestor - because why wouldn't they? Really? One knows all the answers to every question, and the other is just a big elfling, in many ways....</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Beer and Friendship....

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wynja2007](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wynja2007/gifts).



> For Wynja2007, who once said she wanted to know more about Ecthelion in the Rising-verse.  
> Happy Birthday.

It’s been a long day.

Elflings – love them as much as I do, but – elflings take a lot of amusing. 

Which generally, is fine, because their Ada – their Ada needs a lot of fun.

But today, today he was distracted. All morning, looking up, and pacing, and twitching, and in the end, nothing would do but we must all go down to the beach, and stand, and watch.

And of course, when you are only small, there is only a very short time that watching a far-off blob gradually become a closer blob is interesting. However much Ada tells you that his best friend – no, really, completely, bestest ever friend – yes, except for Naneth, because that’s different – but otherwise bestest – bestest ellon friend – is on that boat – when you are only little – you don’t really care.

So long since any other boats arrived, I don’t think they even really remember, the youngest two.

Don’t really understand what a boat is, or where it comes from, or why this is the last one, or whether it really is – I have my suspicions, myself, that there will be a few more last ships to come. But they don’t understand any of that.

So in the end, I took them all off, left him there.

He didn’t want me to go – worried it might look as though I wasn’t being welcoming he said – didn’t want to be left with all those elves who came before, I think – shy, he is, though you would never know – has his moments of worrying. It isn’t easy, when all that any of them know of him is his death.

Anyway.

I said, it would look a damn sight less welcoming if this friend arrived and the first thing he saw of us was the littlest two, Nedio and Paeni, trying to strangle each other, or throwing sand, or they kicked him out of temper, or some such, and of course, like a sensible elf, their father agreed.

Arranged to meet at the lodgings, later on, when Lebio to Paeni will be tired, ready to eat and be interested in our guest. The others being old enough to be well-behaved late into the evening.

At least, I hope so.

One can only hope, sometimes.

Perhaps the littles will go to sleep, I think.

They look ever so sweet when they are asleep. 

Well. Except when they dribble. Less sweet then.

Mind, this friend – I don’t think he’s really one for elflings of any sort. Not married, I hear. Might be vowed now – there seems to be a bit of confusion as to whether they are actually vowed or not – still. I daresay it will all become clear.

And now, now we are still waiting.

The elflings are actually being very patient – by their standards. After all, I cannot remember the last time their Ada was away so long, or the evening meal so late. Normally, I’d like to have them all fed and Nedio and Paeni nearly in bed by now – but I keep remembering how worried he was that we should not look unwelcoming.

So, we wait to eat. They’ve had some little cakes, earlier, they aren’t desperate – just a bit – bored, I think.

There’s not that much to do here really.

Still, they have their combs, their voices, and so we can settle to combing and telling tales.

The eldest, Minio, turns to me, undercover of one of the more exciting parts of the Battle of the Ships, and says,

“Naneth, there have been elves coming back from the beach since first starlight. Ada’s friend must be off the boat – unless he is not there. Do you think – would Ada be sad – need we go and look for him?”

Because even though he is not nearly old enough to remember the last time he has heard the story. The story of that day when his Ada was so sure this friend would arrive, so disappointed when so many of that household did, but not he. And yes, there was a lot of wine drunk that day.

I look at the sky, and it is still twilight.

“We will wait a little more,” I say, “after all, if he was last off, and they have wanted to talk perhaps – they may yet come. It is not like your father not to at least send word.”

He frowns, and I wonder if really he is simply looking for an excuse to go off about the taverns alone. 

He is too young yet for that.

Isn’t he?

Although I am beginning to think I cannot hold him here much longer – beginning to think that yes, I would really rather like to know what has become of my husband – when the door opens, and he is here.

There is a chorus of “Ada, Ada has come, Ada is here, Ada,” and he is swamped.

I – I look beyond him, and see this friend.

Tall, golden, everything that I had ever heard.

And, oh, something I had not heard, I think as I look at his braids. 

Vowed indeed, and – and not married but as though married – what does that mean among Noldor?

And who is this?

My Ecthelion pulls himself free of the children, for a moment, and meets my eyes,

“Here we are, then,” he says, “nessimavessë, this is m’dear Glorfindel – and his Erestor,” he pauses a moment, as though remembering, playing the simple bluff warrior, as he does, and then, “Glorfindel – you know all my tales m’dears – and I’ll remind you again not to believe a word he says about me, I wasn’t half the scamp he’ll pretend. Erestor – what was it – Vanimedlion – late of Imladris, and I am afraid I have forgotten the rest already – you know how I am, m’dear. We’ve room for another, until these chaps find their feet, haven’t we?”

And all the time his eyes are on mine, and I can see he is worried, concerned about this friend, about something that has happened, something of which we may speak, but for now – for now there is a reason, and trust him, and please?

So of course, yes, always room for another, and welcome, and you must be ready to eat something hot and cheering, always a strange moment, disembarking, so they tell me, and of course, you will come home with us tomorrow, and stay as long as you like – always room – have a look around, decide what suits. No hurry. But for now, these elflings need feeding and bedtime or there will be tears, so if you wouldn’t mind, love, just call the landlord, the meal’s been keeping hot this long while.

 

 

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

 

 

Strange as it seems, I never expected this.

Of all the things, I never expected – a wife, children – so many children – elflings of all sizes, it seems, all of them noisy and excited. 

All of them – girls and boys – so like my Ecthelion when we were young. 

Suddenly, seeing them, all of them, bouncing round him, laughing, singing, all of them Noldor-dark, no trace of their Teleri mother in their hair, I am taken back to all those years. Years of friendship, of talking, always talking – Ecthelion can never be silent – singing – combing – fighting – in training and in anger – drinking – and there are not many elves who can drink me under the table, but Ecthelion can – laughing. I had forgotten how much Ecthelion laughs. 

Always one to enjoy life, and now, now I find him here, married, children, shocked – he must be shocked – by what I now am, by my Erestor and I – yet he still does not stop laughing.

He must not have understood. As I hoped – and I am ashamed of myself once again – I hoped he would not.

And I look at my Erestor, at his braids, our braids – our braids – which say everything about us – and I find – I want to change them.

Is that not awful?

Horrendous?

My Erestor – my beloved – the one who makes sense of me – and I would – I would suddenly leave him – betray him – lie about him – all the things I said I would not do.

Because I see Ecthelion again.

My dear Ecthelion.

Friend of so many years, and I cannot – I cannot think like this – but I do – I should not – he is so – innocently pleased to see us – me.

He has no idea.

He has not looked – I cannot believe anything else – he has not looked at our braids, has not read them – has not seen how it is.

But I look at his children – his sons – and I wonder for how long we will be welcome here. 

How long before the truth can no longer be hidden, and I – I must – walk away once more. 

 

 

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

 

 

 

We do not discuss their braids – how can we – I would not risk the children hearing, nor our guests – and so I do not know what my Ecthelion makes of them, what he thinks they mean. It is perhaps as well not to speak of such things, to let them simply be – not all is improved by talking. For all I know, to these Noldor, strange as they are, one born across the Sea, one lived there so long that surely he must be changed, must have little of the Glorfindel my Ecthelion knew left in him – to these Noldor, the braids of ‘as though married’ may simply signify a vow-unto-death, combing, nothing more and nothing less. A love true and enduring yet not – physical.

I suppose that is how my Ecthelion reads them.

We become used to our guests. They are both good with the elflings – and I seem to have more time to myself, more time with my Ecthelion than I have had since, well, since the eldest was born. Very nice it is too. 

Evening conversations become more civilised, or rather – differently excitable. Instead of the uncontrollable giggling, the clowning, the bizarre and foolish jokes upon jokes, tales of the impossible, that their father enjoys so, suddenly we are debating morals, customs, ways of ruling – both oneself and others. The qualities which make a fine leader, the conditions needed for a war to be just, speculating upon the nature of the good, upon the truth behind tales – all these things. And if the youngest do not follow every word, they follow enough to learn something, I hope – and if any of them begin to drowse, suddenly there is not only Ecthelion and I to hold them. Glorfindel’s lap is rarely empty, and indeed I would think he would be glad for a meal without at least one hand in his hair, holding on as elflings do – but it seems not.

From time to time they mention the necessity of moving out, of finding their own place, but I admit, there is little encouragement from either of us – and our youngest is distraught at the very idea. Glorfindel assures her that they would not be far away, that he would still come and ride with her, but she is not convinced.

“Time enough, ‘Fin old chap,” Ecthelion says, whenever the subject is raised, “time enough. Unless Erestor is bored of us, but – well, m’dear chap – such a lot of catchin’ up to do. Besides, all these books we seem to have ended up with, what with one thing and another,” and that is one way of describing my family’s habit of handing everything over whenever they move, and Ecthelion’s compulsive need to store anything, “could do with a learned chap like yourself about, Erestor, make sense of ‘em all. Put ‘em into some kind of order maybe. Get the young ‘uns busy on it – if anyone can make ‘em it’s you. Never known anything like it.”

Erestor smiles his dignified, reserved smile and inclines his head.

“We had practice,” he says, and their eyes meet, “the peredhel.”

“Heard a lot about ‘em,” Ecthelion nods, “not met ‘em yet though, have we dear? Have we?” he panics, as he sometimes does, knowing his memory for names and faces is not the best, “no. Bring ‘em – bring ‘em for dinner one of these days. Not married are they, you said? Just two extra – oh, bring ‘em. Daresay they could tell us a few tales of what you two’ve been up to over the years, eh?”

There is a silence, long enough and awkward enough even for Ecthelion to notice, and he looks at me, even as I, puzzled, look at him.

Erestor swallows, and sits straighter,

“I do not think that will be possible,” he says, “their father – my lord Elrond has made it clear he does not wish them to associate with us.”

Ecthelion’s jaw clenches, and I reach my hand out to him,

“Does not wish them – like that, is he? Bearing grudges still that should have been put aside years ago?”

“ ‘Thel, dear,” I begin, because really, there is no point. If this Elrond person is one of those who wish to blame we Teleri for our misfortunes – if he would rewrite history in such a way – there is not much to be done. Best left.

Erestor blinks, and speaks again,

“No, my lord Ecthelion, it is not like that at all. No insult is meant to you or your lady, I assure you. In fact I am surprised, I admit, that my lord Elrond has not himself spoken to you,”

“Or sent his pathetic excuse for a minstrel,” Glorfindel puts in, and his voice is bitter as I have not before heard it.

“Or sent Lindir, indeed,” Erestor continues smoothly, “warning you for your own protection or – or that of your children.”

Who, fortunately, are out of earshot of Glorfindel’s curse, which I decide to pretend I also have not heard, as he then looks at me, and flushes to the tips of his ears,

“Forgive me, ‘Thel, forgot your lady was present.”

Ecthelion – Ecthelion looks at each of them, and there is another silence. Erestor’s head is up, meeting his eyes, anger and determination in him, and I – I wonder that I have so often heard him describe himself as merely a scribe for the tale his face tells is one of blood, of violence and of battles costly won.

It is Glorfindel who looks away, stares at the ground, tries to look up at Ecthelion and cannot. Touches his braids uncertainly.

My Ecthelion shrugs,

“No idea what you mean,” he says, and I wonder how honest he is being, “not sure I want to. Stay as long as you like, you know that, ‘Fin, Erestor, both of you more than welcome. Now, I’d best be off. Got to see an elf about a dog, you know. Comin’, anyone? That bitch has had a litter – I told you m’dear – she’s an excellent hunter – be glad to pick up a few of her pups – whatsisname’s gel – Arasfaron. Silvan chappy, but still – he knows a good dog, I’ll say that for him.”

Glorfindel’s head swings round,

“Arasfaron?” he asks, “not – not from Eryn Lasgalen as it now is? Tall – auburn – oh as though that helps. Clever chap, good company?” 

Ecthelion is nodding, though I doubt he could honestly swear to any of it, so I say,

“Yes, came over a while back. Nice wife, I see her from time to time, you know how you do. Not sure what he used to do, all very hush-hush, working for Thranduil and then that Red they have there, but now – now he’s simply enjoying himself. Breeding dogs. They never had the chance, she told me, that Forest being what it was – and he always worked so hard.”

Glorfindel laughs,

“I might just come,” he says, “I owe him a few words. Spent a fair bit of time with him when I was there, in the War, good company, made a big difference to me at the time. Was lonely, or would have been, if they hadn’t all been so friendly.”

There is a look exchanged, and Erestor raises an eyebrow,

“And that was Elrond as well, sending you off without a by-your-leave – yes, go on, but do not eat anything of which you are unsure. No arthropods or such. If that is really true.”

Glorfindel laughs,

“Swear to Valar,” he says, “did I tell you that one, ‘Thel? Wild things, Silvans, you know what they brought in to a feast as a delicacy once?”

and as they stride off, he is already deep in his tale, Ecthelion shaking his head in disbelief.

Erestor smiles, a small, private smile, the same smile as is probably on my face, and shakes his head,

“Warriors,” he says, and then flicks his eyes to me, and I take a leaf from my husband’s tree, I do not let him speak, 

“Go on,” I say, “Minio, Tadi, and Neli are all waiting for more political theory, and I believe Otsi and Toldio have written out a poem that they want you to admire. Cantio and Lebio are up a tree, not like to come down, Enpi has taken Paeni off for a listening walk, so Nedio and I are planning on a quiet afternoon’s sewing. At least, relatively quiet. Only remember to admire his tapestry when it is done, please, and ignore the rather unlikely colours of the birds.”

I learnt years ago that the only way to manage any number of little Ecthelions is to know where they are at all times. And now we have ten – and he will be wanting another soon, if I know my husband. 

Well, we are elves. We have the time – why not?

 

 

 

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

 

It is almost dusk as we return to Ecthelion’s house.

“Ah, now, ‘Fin, m’dear chap, you’ll not mind explainin’ to my wife what a lot you and old Arasfaron turned out to have to say to each other, will you?” he looks at me sidelong, and then pushes a hand uneasily through his hair, “better tell her this un’s for you and this for your Erestor. ‘F I’m to have the three we agreed once they’re ready to leave their dam, these two scruffs’d best be yours. She won’t mind.”

Really?

I look at him, and he laughs,

“No, she won’t. Likes your Erestor – likes the manners he’s put on our rabble. Good chap, well done, ‘Fin, knew I could rely on you.”

And he strides into the house before me, leaving me with the puppies. 

Ecthelion’s wife may not be cross, but Erestor is going to be furious.

By the time we come to eat, the puppies are bedded down comfortably, and yes, Erestor is indeed furious, still looking daggers at me across the table – and I have not had the chance to either explain to him what Ecthelion is up to, nor to explain to Ecthelion that Erestor loathes dogs. He had a cat, for a while, I remember. I suppose it died, as animals do.

It was before we knew each other well. Nice enough little thing, Tinnu, I think, or somesuch. Used to catch spiders, I remember, and eat them, rather like a Silvan, you would see it wandering around with the legs hanging out of its mouth.

I haven’t thought of Tinnu for years. I wonder if Erestor would like another cat, if we ever leave here, have our own place. After these wretched puppies, which ‘Thel has landed us with, have finally died.

“You do not seem too well pleased with your surprise,” she says to Erestor, and no, that is something of an understatement, but before he can express his utter disdain and annoyance – and I daresay he thinks I have forgotten his feelings, as though I could – she continues, “still, one thing about Arasfaron – he never forgets to send honeybeer with his pups. Almost as though he knows they are not universally popular.”

“Honeybeer!” there is a cry from the elflings – numbers Minio to Otsi looking excited and pleased, the others not happy.

“We’re old enough now,” Nedio says, and even as Ecthelion shakes his head, “we are, Ada, surely, you said next time we would be – you did, you promised, Ada, you did.”

He shifts uneasily, and oh my Ecthelion, you have not changed in all the years,

“I might have said that, yes,” he begins, only to continue before the rejoicing can become too loud, “but I was mistaken. Didn’t know ‘Fin’d be coming, wantin’ a pup – brace of pups – did I? Sorry, treasures, no.”

They appeal to their mother, to Erestor, to me, to the Valar above. It is unfair, Ada promised, it is not right, not just.

Erestor and I look at each other, and a glimmering of hope I have now – he is half-smiling, I will be forgiven, in time.

“You are not missing anything,” he says to the elflings, “believe me, it is not awfully nice. Very sweet. And – do you know what it is made from?”

They look at him dubiously, as though he has run mad – I daresay they are still at the age where sweeter is better, however much they need be protected from the sugar – and Ecthelion says, slowly,

“Honeybeer – honey, beer – honey from bees, flowers – beer from – peasants – barley, hops, yeast, water. Surely?”

Erestor shakes his head, and raises an eyebrow,

“Silvans – living in a wood – a dark and fearsome forest – not a lot of flowers, barley, hops, any such things there. How long have you lived here, my lord of the fountains – have you noticed many such crops?”

There is a silence.

“Trade?” Enpi asks, hesitantly. 

Ecthelion puts down his glass, and looks at me,

“Am I goin’ to want to hear this? Are we talkin’ – spidery things again?”

I laugh, and even my Erestor is almost smiling now,

“No,” I reassure them all, “no spiders. At least, I assume not. The original recipe – so I was told, after I had drunk much, I assure you, and to their great amusement – barley indeed, or similar – grain. I do not know what he uses here – much as you use for the bread, my lady, I daresay, and yeast similarly. Water is water. Hops – back in the Forest they used some kind of pinecones or berries, depending on season. Gave a different tang, I suppose. Best not to ask, they can get very excited about plants, Silvans. Talk the ear off an elf, they can,” I pause, and look at the drink, take a mouthful, “no, I couldn’t say what they used. Honey though – oh yes, honey. Not honey from bees. Silvan honey. Honey from plants. From a particular – lichen. Grows on trees, likes the dark. Oozes. Oozes this – honey. They call it honey. Lichen honey. They lick it off. Or collect it, store it, brew with it. Odd people, Silvans.”

Ecthelion shrugs,

“Eaten worse,” he says, and his wife seems to feel the same – Teleri, of course, I have no idea what they eat – but the elflings – all of them – Minio to Otsi – put their glasses down, and the youngest three do not seem as keen as they were. Ecthelion winks at me.

Later that evening, after all the elflings have either been put to bed or wandered off to look at the stars, or whatever elflings do, Ecthelion produces another couple of bottles.

“You’ve saved us a fair amount of complainin’ there, ‘Fin,” he says, “true or not, it was a good thought. Pinecones and lichen – fussy little buggers, our elflin’s. So, you two take these off to your room – have some fun tonight,” he winks, “effervescent drinks. Tingle on the tongue – and everywhere else, if you know what I mean. And if you don’t, well, go and work it out.”

I can feel myself flushing, and I cannot look at my Erestor, or at ‘Thel’s wife for that matter. They are deep in discussion of some proclamation of Gil-galad’s, something that was radical three thousand years and more ago. She is fascinated by tales of the land over the Sea.

But I am trying to make sense of Ecthelion’s words. Did ‘Thel – does he – he knows? He does not mind?

Somehow I manage to take the proffered bottles, and he adds,

“ ‘Fin, m’dear old chap, I’m not a fool. Know how you two are – knew how _you_ were years ago for that matter. Been wonderin’ how to say – those braids – good to see you so happy. Happens among Teleri you know. Way back – before all that – fire and so on – you always had an eye for the lads. I guessed then. Know you better than you think. Didn’t matter, not to me, anymore than it did to you when I was looking at the ladies – though least said, soonest mended there. Now go on, go and play with your honeybeer,” he glances over to his wife, “and let me play with mine. Got a lot of makin’ up to do, those pups – she isn’t daft, saw Erestor’s face. I’m in trouble. Just as well I’m still skilled with my old spear, I reckon, eh?”

And he grins, irrepressible, joyous in his uxouriousness. 

Speechless, I stand there, beer in hand, as he walks over and leans down to rest his head on his wife’s hair, speak into her ear.

I am glad I cannot hear his words, for her ears flush, though not, I think, with embarrassment, and in moments Erestor and I are alone.

“Puppies?” he asks, and I – I shrug.

“ ‘Thel’s idea,” I say, “they’re his. He just – wanted an excuse – oh, I don’t know, mëollyar, I don’t know. Does it matter? Come to bed, love. I am not in the mood for political discussion, or arguments about pets, and I certainly do not want to meet any of the elflings. Just come to bed. Apparently this drink – “

“Oh,” he says, and his voice has changed, “oh. Oh, maitimahtar, that is a fine idea.”

Ah.

Something else in one of Elrond’s books then. 

Deary, deary me.

**Author's Note:**

> Ecthelion seems to have been on his best behaviour at the end of 'Adrift..', hence the change in accent now he is more relaxed.
> 
> In the best tradition of Tolkien :$ i have not named Ecthelion's wife. No reason, just didn't get round to it. 
> 
> Ecthelion's children's names;  
> formed by taking the Quenya ordinals and then having a best guess at the shift to Teleri, with gender-based endings.


End file.
